The End Of A Short Journey On This Trek

You probably saw this coming.

In an earlier post, I mentioned the Trek 720 hybrid frame that came my way. 

Well, I put it together with some parts I had lying around and others I scrounged from bike shops where I do business.  And what little riding I've done during the past few weeks (We've had lots of ice on the streets, bridges and bike lanes!) has been done on that bike.  I didn't feel like getting road salt and sand all over my Mercians.

Now someone else has that bike.  A young female grad student I know needed some basic transportation.   

What did she give me in return?  Gratitude.  You see, I took off the seat (Brooks B 17) and pedals (MKS Lambda, a.k.a. Grip King) and let her take the rest of the bike.  

I look at it this way:  I didn't spend any money on the bike and I rode it for a couple of months.    All right, so I spent some time--but not much--putting it together.  I guess I can call that service.

The Real Way To Find The Right Bike For You

I found this neat graphic on the Osprey Packs blog. 

You've gotta love some of the questions on it: "Ever worked as a bike messenger or dreamed of it?" "What's your favorite kind of equestrian event?" "Which are you more likely to consume while riding?"

 But my favorite question is the one at the top of the "chain": "Are you wearing a top hat?" Honestly, I am not, and never have.

 I've worn all sorts of things--and very little of anything at all--while riding my bike. And, before I started wearing helmet, I sported all manner of headgear, from bonnets to berets--and, yes, cycling caps. But no top hat. Or spats.

Before Portland, There Was Portland

Mention "the history of cycling"--or, in particular, "the history of road (or track) racing", and chances are people would think of Europe--perhaps specifically of France or Italy.

However, in spite of the "Dark Ages" in the post-World War II years, the United States has its own history of bicycle racing.  Most of it is still unwritten and exists--to the extent that it does--in photographs that are fading and becoming brittle as leaves in October.

I have alluded to a few episodes of that history in earlier posts about Nancy Burghart and the Six Day Races, and others in which I mention the annual Tour of Somerville (NJ) and the 1951 tandem race in New Brunswick, NJ.

Now I've come across another interesting piece of that history:  the 1967 National Road Championships in Portland, OR.

American Cycling:  October 1967 issue featuring National Championships held in Portland, OR

Yes, in Portland.  Believe it or not, people cycled there before the first hipsters moved in.  (To be fair, a lot of the newcomers were trying to live the kinds of lives they hoped to live--and couldn't afford--in San Francisco and Seattle.)  Before there were commuters and nude races there were, well, races.

Actually, it's not so surprising when you consider that most of the cycling scene of that time was concentrated on the West Coast and in parts of New England and, inerestingly, the Detroit area.  In 1967, the American racing scene was taking its first pedal strokes on its return to a place among the cycling superpowers.  Tim Mountford, Jackie Simes, Skip Cutting and John Howard--and, of course, Nancy Burghart-- were the stars in that still-limited but growing firmament of American bicycle racing.

Given that Stars and Stripes cycling was drawing the first breaths of its resuscitation, Pete Hoffman's account of the Portland championships makes for a remarkably good read.  And, of course, the photos are not to be missed.

My First Mountain (Bike)

There's a good chance you've seen one of these bikes:

For a time in my life, I owned and rode one.  In fact, I was one of the first people to do so.

Early in 1983, I was working at Highland Park (NJ) Cyclery again.  At that time, I had the Columbus-tubed Trek 930  racing bike and Peugeot PX-10 I've mentioned in other posts.  

I didn't really want or need another bike.  However, at that time, I couldn't help but to notice the then-newfangled mountain bikes that were appearing for the first time outside of northern California and New England.  

Two years earlier, the first mass-produced mountain bike came to market:  The Specialized Stumpjumper.  Up to that time, mountain bikes were made by specialty framebuilders like Joe Breeze and Tom Ritchey and had components that the builders made themselves or adapted from existing parts.  Needless to say, those bikes were expensive:  even more costly than the best racing bikes available at the time.  In spite of the time and effort that went into building them, most early bikes rode and handled like shopping carts, at least compared to today's bikes.

Although the Stumpjumper was "mass market", it wasn't cheap:  For its sticker price, one could get a decent racing bike or a good fully-loaded tourer.  It, too, is clunky compared to modern mountain bikes, let alone road machines.  However, every once in a while I see one outfitted with decent components (some of which are original).  Because of their long wheelbases and slack angles, those early Stumpjumpers offer a cushier and even more stable (at slow speeds) ride than some cruisers, which some people love.  And, it almost goes without saying, the early Stumpjumpers are collectors' items.

I'm not sure the Ross Force 1 will ever attain such status. Nonetheless,  it holds the distinction of being the first mountain bike Ross produced, as well as the first bike with cantilever brakes to be built in the company's Allentown, PA factory.  (To my knowledge, no such bikes were ever made in their Rockaway Beach, NY factory.)

Some time in the 1970's, I believe, Ross started to make ten-speed bikes with lugged high-tensile steel frames after a decade or so of importing them from Japan.  Until then, Rosses were made like most other American bikes of the time:  from welded steel tubes.  Not surprisingly, they were about as heavy as most other American bikes.

The Force 1 featured a frame that looked--and rode--the way one of their lugged high-tensile bikes would have ridden if its wheelbase had been stretched a few inches and its angles slackened by about seven  degrees.  I couldn't complain, though:  I knew I wasn't getting a high-performance machine.  

So why did I buy it?  Well, for one thing, it was cheap:  The retail price was about the same as that of the company's mid-level ten-speed and, of course, as an employee, I didn't pay retail.  Also, I figured I could beat the stuffin's out of it, which I did.  Finally, as I said, I was curious about mountain bikes.

And, oh, I'll admit it:  I liked the way the bike looked, with its black frame and gold-anodized wheels.  

The bike was about what I expected:  heavy and sturdy.  It was the first bike I used as a messenger, and it served me well.  All through slushy, snowy, rainy deliveries, the bike held up nicely.  One particular surprise was the Normandy/Maillard five-speed freewheel that came with it.  For one thing, it was the only French, let alone European, part on the bike.  For another, it was the most impervious part:  The cogs barely wore at all, and none of the grit or slush seemed to enter the bearings or other parts of the mechanism.  Aside from cleaning the cogs when I degreased the chain, I didn't have to perform any maintenance on it.

Most of the other parts performed well (e.g., Sun Tour derailleurs) or were barely noticeable (cranks, seat post, and others).  The handlebars were rock-steady.  They should have been:  They were the "bull-moose" type, welded to the stem's two extensions.  I suspected that, removed from the bike, they'd make good weapons, though I never tested that idea.

It did come with one really weird component, though:  the Shimano Admas AX pedals.  In those days, Shimano had a reputation for weirdness, but these pedals made some of those early aerodynamic components seem sober.  Depending on which Shimano rep you believed, the pedals were more aerodynamic or more ergonomic than any others.  As far as I could tell, they simply had less ground clearance than any other pedal, save for one, I've ever ridden.  They met an untimely (or, perhaps not, for them) demise from curbs and such.

About a year after acquiring the bike--and a few months into my time as a messenger--I parked the Force I outside Rockefeller Center to make a delivery on a high floor. When I returned, it was gone.  All that glitters may not be gold, but it still attracts thieves, I guess.

Note:  The bike was eventually renamed the Mount Hood because of trademark issues with the Force 1 name.  The Mount Hood remained in production for several more years, first in Allentown and later in Taiwan.

Three Years Ago Today: Fukushima-Daiichi

Partly because I am a cyclist, I am concerned about the environment and its effects on our health and well-being.  Therefore, I could not help but to note that three years ago today, a tsunami caused a catastrophic failure, which led to a meltdown, in the Fukushima-Daiichi nuclear power plant in Japan.

Fukushima-Daichi Nuclear Power Plant

Last month, higher-than-normal levels of radioactive isotopes were found in Pacific Ocean water off British Colombia, Canada.  Scientists say that those same infected tides could wash up on beaches and cliffs in California, Oregon and Washington State next month.

This catastrophe came less than a year after the BP oil spill in the Gulf of Mexico.  Consequences of that disaster are still unfolding, but it seems that the aftermath of Fukushima could be even longer-lasting and reach even further.

I don't mean to rain on anybody's brevet or audax.  I just want to have an environment in which we can ride--and otherwise play, and live and work, in good health and peace.

A Straightforward Oxymoron?

The first time you saw or heard the word "oxymoron", what did you think?

Perhaps it's indicative of the time in my life when I learned it that I thought about a stupid kid with zits.  Back then, a product for treating acne that had "Oxy" in its name had recently been introduced.  Is that product still being made?

Anyway, being the sort of person who remembers examples better than abstract definitions, whenever I heard the word "oxymoron", I would think of "military intelligence", "dietetic candy", "authentic reproduction" and "business ethics".  Oh, and there was a sign I saw in a supermarket:  "Fresh frozen jumbo baby shrimp."

Here's another one to add to the list:  a riderless bicycle.   

From Wired.com

Now, such a thing may be plausible, at least in an etymological or epistemological sense.  (I teach college. I have to use words like those at least once a year.  There, I got it over with!)  After all, a bicycle is nothing more than a vehicle with two wheels.  So, I suppose, one could have a bicycle without a rider.  Of course, I have to ask:  Why?

Well, someone seems to have a reason:  research.  Yes, you can get away with inventing practically anything for research purposes. But I think this project may have practical applications:  The riderless bicycle's creators are trying to learn more about gyroscopic forces and what keeps wheeled vehicles stable.

Maybe one day, if I have money to burn, I'll buy one of those bicycles for someone whom I tried, and failed, to turn into a cyclist!

What You Can't Leave Home Without

Seems that some people believe in carrying absolutely everything:

That image comes to you from a post on strange bicycles from Japan (where else?) in TechEBlog.

Back to the Future(ism)

The other day I wrote about Skycycle, an elevated bicycle highway proposed for London.

When I looked at the artist's rendition of it, I couldn't help but to think about Futurism, which began in Italy early in the twentieth century.  Artists, designers, architects, musicians writers and even fashion designers and gourmet chefs wanted to "free" Italy from the "shackles" of its history.  

The chefs and food critics associated with the movement even wanted to convert Italians from eating pasta to eating rice!  

The visions of the future presented by creative people associated with the movement sometimes look like episodes of The Jetsons--which is especially striking when you consider motion pictures were just past their naissance and television was about half a century in the future.

What ruined it for a lot of people, though, is that Benito Mussolini embraced it as part of his vision of reforming "a nation of illiterate peasants, manual labors, waiters, barbers and tourist guides".  Also, a paralell movement developed in Russia (and in the nascent Soviet Union). Thus, futurism would be bound, in many people's minds, with fascism or other kinds of totalitarianism.

The irony is that when Futurism was embraced--admittedly, by relatively few--in the United States, the resulting designs were lavish--almost a post-modern baroque, if you will.

This "Spacelander" bike was designed by Benjamin G. Bowden and made by Bomard Industires during the early 1960's.  Only 500 or so were ever sold; now they are sought by collectors.

Does Size Matter?

Recently, I met a seminarian who used to work in the fashion industry.  (Now there's a journey!)  She recounted dressing Christy Turlington for a show:   "Her arms were so thin I thought I'd snap them off!", she recounted.

We all know that most bicycle racers are thin.  Jan Ullrich, who won the 1997 Tour de France and might've won in 2001 had he not crashed, was often criticised for his weight. Even so, he was fitter and trimmer than 99 percent of people in the industrialised world.

Believe it or not, back in the 1890's, some fans as well as trainers believed "bigger is better" in cycling.  The rationale seemed to be that bigger men had more muscle and more weight to propel it, which would make them more powerful cyclists.  

There was even a cyclist who went only by the name of "Grimes" who carried  257 kilograms (567 pounds) on his 183 cm (6 foot) frame.  His chest measured  157 cm (62 inches) in circumference; perhaps that gave him more lung capacity.

Here he is, on a bike specially designed for him:

This illustration accompanied an article called "Grotesque Forms of Cycles" in the 30 December 1899 issue of Scientific American.  Check it out for illustrations of other bike that live up to the title's claim.

Cycles In The Sky

I took a walk on the High Line (Is that the title of a Lou Reed song?) shortly after it opened.  I enjoyed its green space and overall attractiveness.  But I also had a sinking feeling in my stomach.  About two years later, I realized why:  Upon returning about two years later, it had become, essentially, an elevated version of Times Square with more trees and more expensive lattes. It became an "it" destination for tourists to the Big Apple in a way that the Viaduc des Arts, after which it was modeled, never did in Paris. 

Now, that all might be unrelated to what I am about to discuss, save for the fact that a proposed bicycle highway made me think about the High Line.

No less than Sir Norman Foster, Britain's most prolific architect (and a passionate cyclist) backs a "Skycycle" thoroughfare that would allow two-wheeled commuters and tourists to whisk into, out of and through Central London.  The elevated lanes would be built above existing railroad tracks so that buildings and other structures would not have to be demolished.

On one hand, I like the idea.  One thing I actually liked about riding in the Five Borough Bike Tour, as well as other organized rides, was the opportunity to ride on elevated expressways (and the lower deck of the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge) that were closed to automobile traffic.  Although I missed the street-level contact I'd normally experience in riding through some Brooklyn neighborhoods I know well, I enjoyed the views of the harbor and waterfront.

Some might argue that building an elevated bicycle highway might entice people who are intimidated by traffic into riding to work.  That may well be true, if the increase in the number of cyclists following the construction (or, in some cases, segregation) of bike lanes on New York City streets is any indication.  However, as Mark Ames points out in the Sustainable Cities Collective blog, a bicycle highway is probably unnecessary.  He argues that there is plenty of room for cyclists and pedestrians on London Streets, but not for cars.  Therefore, he says, the solution is to limit the number of cars in the central city, which London does through a "congestion surcharge."

Mike Bloomberg floated the idea of such a levy for Manhattan below 60th Street.  It was about as popular as the notion of banning bagels.  The loudest objections came from family-owned construction companies and the like that are based in the far reaches of the outer boroughs but do much of their business in Midtown and Downtown. 

I hope that our current Mayor, Bill de Blasio revisits the idea.  Perhaps he will if he's elected to a second term.  From what I've seen, he is smart enough to realize that if it's simply not possible to squeeze more cars and trucks into Manhattan right now, we might be near that point.  I don't think he'd want to be remembered as the mayor who was in office when Manhattan froze in a state of permanent gridlock.

Then, about all anyone will be able to do is to sip those $15 lattes on the High Line.